02. Empires of Flux and Anchor (12 page)

"And the communications?"

"This is part of the diabolical portion. Somehow he's come up with a new language, a shifting mathematical abstract that serves to carry thoughts and process memories, but its basic code randomly shifts several times a minute. I would say that all of her memories and basic personality are intact, but the language is so abstract and complex that it bears no relation to ours, and since it constantly shifts, it's impossible by the present arts to decode. I would almost say it is a language better suited to machines than humans, although what machines would need languages I don't know, nor can I guess where he got it. Even duplicating the language spell won't help unless you know and start with the exact same coding as she's using at the moment—and even if you matched it up, it would require reorganizing your mind. You would be thinking in
her
language and not your own. The two are simply incompatible. Nor could you talk to her, since the language is so abstract no human throat could utter it. She can neither read, write, speak, or understand, and since her linguistic frame of reference is so different, she could not relearn ours."

"Diabolical indeed," Kasdi agreed gravely. "It would be interesting to know the source of that language. It's not the kind of thing anyone might make up."

"I agree. Much time will be spent on that question, I assure you. But his evil mind runs deeper than I've yet explained. Again, it is in the nature of the language. She simply cannot use or develop or understand the use for human artifacts.
Anything
made by humans. Nor use domestic beasts. Oh, I have no doubt she recognizes and knows these things intellectually, but she is prevented from comprehending them. It is a trigger spell that only comes into force when she is faced with the situation. In this she is less than the animals, most of whom can instinctively use certain tools or make certain constructs or at least learn some simple mechanisms. Her life is the basic human needs and no more. She is not permitted to do anything else."

"It must drive her nuts. Poor Spirit! What have they done to you?"

"Coydt's even ahead there. She sleeps a lot, and I doubt if she dwells or broods or thinks very long on any one subject. She'll sit and watch a bee or a butterfly for hours. This isn't to say that she's dumb, only that she's been totally adapted to her condition by the spells. We've already pushed the sign language as far as we can without using spelling, I suspect. She's a good pupil and catches on fast. It's basic, and that's all it'll ever be. It helps that she has such an expressive face and that she seems now, at least, to wear her emotions like a signpost."

"So how long will it take you now to break the spell?"

"Never. And I mean that."

"What! But that's impossible! Even Coydt can't be
that
good!"

"He isn't. No, if he had imposed this spell, rather than just written it, it could be peeled off, layer by layer, although there would be some problems, because of the language system, and some danger. But he didn't put it on her. She put it on herself, with the binding spell."

Kasdi was suddenly on her feet. "What? But how is that possible? She doesn't know enough to use that spell!"

"You know she has your old Soul Rider."

"Yes, but—you don't mean
it
did it?"

"No, as far as I can tell, it was its usual passive self. And since it didn't take on Coydt when it had its chance, that means this is only the first part of a much larger plot. In fact, it's the most downright diabolical thing of all. You see, there
is
a way to break the spell."

That statement was almost as great a shock to her as Spirit's condition. "But you taught me it was impossible!"

"There is one way, but it's a hard one, and I think Coydt knows it. If someone of equal or superior power voluntarily takes on the spell, and if the spell will fit the volunteer, it can be moved. That was almost certainly the bargain. He ran her through three days of terror using Flux power, then offered her this way out with the chance it could be broken. She took it. I would have, too, under the same circumstances and with her ignorance of the limits of Flux power."

Kasdi sat back down again, looking weak and drained. "I see. And that's really what this is all about. Coydt sends her back like this, knowing it will tear me apart."

"Not to mention embarrass you through the empire," the wizard pointed out. "You can take on Fluxlords but couldn't save your own daughter. It sows nervousness and insecurity."

She nodded. "I don't really mind that, though. It'll pass. But the real kicker is that the spell will only really fit Spirit or me—right?"

"He seems to have arranged it so. Are you considering it?"

"I'm tired, Mervyn. Sick and tired. If this thing can't go on without me, it isn't worth doing at all. Don't I owe her that?"

"Perhaps. I will not argue politics with you. It is still not a solution, as Coydt well knows. It's his final joke on us, so to speak. You see, the self-binding spell is a rather simple one, as you know, and it is always the same. It is the spell or spells that attach to it that are the important ones. Should you take Spirit's binding spell, the mathematics would balance and the flow would go in both directions. You would get Spirit's binding spells—and she would get yours."

Kasdi sighed. "I see," was all she managed. It was all too clear a vision. Spirit would be bound to all the vows of the Church and to the ascetic lifestyle that Kasdi had imposed on herself. It was the sort of existence she could never imagine for Spirit, particularly without the job or any sense of commitment. She would be able to talk, and to learn to use and develop her Flux powers, but she would also not be allowed any possessions of her own, would be denied sex, would be bound to the kind of simple drudgery Kasdi now was, bound to obey all the vows, rules, and laws of the Church absolutely and to the letter; yet she would not be a priestess. She would want and feel all the things a seventeen-year-old wanted and felt, but she would be unable to attain any of them. Instead of merely condemning Spirit, he would condemn them both.

"So what can we do?" she asked him pleadingly. "What will become of her? I mean, the way you talk, she is going to be like that ten years from now, a hundred, perhaps forever."

He nodded. "I can see no other way, although we shouldn't underestimate the Soul Rider. Remember, it got you out of some impossible situations doing these things that we all were certain was against the rules. Coydt's way of dealing with that is quite interesting, but untried. Since the Soul Rider can act only through its host, he has limited her access to Flux power. She is passive, prevented from using any power or even committing any act to force her will on anyone. That's why she came along with us so readily. Her power is only available for self-defense or self-preservation on a conscious level, and while it is considerable, she has the preset spells to call upon only under those circumstances. Since the whole set of spells is integral, all must be broken to break one. He's counting on that spell holding, so that the Soul Rider, trapped in an immortal body, can not use its powers and knowledge against anyone, including them."

"Will it work?"

"We won't know until and unless the Soul Rider tries and succeeds. But the other key is in that bizarre language. If we can discover its origin and original users or intent, we might be able to mitigate the spells somehow. In the meantime, though, I would let her go."

"What?"

"I mean it. The word is already spreading. In a few days all of World will know of the spell and its nature. She's in no danger. There is a shell over the spell that maintains it absolutely. She is as immune from Flux power as anyone could be. Let her do what you always wanted to do and what I'm told she did, too. Let her walk the length and breadth of World and see what there is to see."

"But—like
that
?"

"She must learn to live with it. People will recognize her and let her go. They will tolerate in her things they would not tolerate in themselves, for she'll be a curiosity and something of a celebrity."

"A freak, you mean."

"So? She's already restless down there. Sooner or later she's going to go away. Let her adjust and let World adjust to her. She is going to live like that for a very long time."

It was a sobering thought.

It was a bar in a Fluxland up in the north wilds called Hjinna. Like many of the Fluxlands in the wilds, away from any Anchors, it tended to be populated with people in the business of Flux— minor wizards false and true, retired stringers, and a fair number of fugitives. Powerful ex-stringers usually established the places in reality and relaxed to enjoy them rather than rule them.

The bar was Flandy's Bar, and inside tough-looking men and women were drinking and talking and showing off and even gambling, something not usually possible in Flux, but possible here under the rules of the Fluxland's proprietor, as he liked to call himself.

Through the swinging front doors stepped an enormous man, well over two meters tall and weighing, it seemed, better than two hundred kilos. He was clearly a dugger, with a purplish complexion, a misshapen, hairless face, and a permanent, insane grin, while his skin seemed all mottled and full of discolorations. In many places he would have been the object of horrible fascination and some fear, but not in Hjinna. Lots of retired duggers and those taking a break between six-month-long stringer routes were always about. In fact, although this one was a stranger to almost all of them, only one, an elderly man who'd been drinking pretty heavily, eyed the newcomer with recognition and then growing fear. He got up and made his way quickly to the back of the bar and then stepped out into the alley behind, still clutching his bottle.

The alley seemed clear, and so he turned left— and suddenly came up against a solid wall that hadn't been there a moment before. He cried out, turned, and started the other way—and ran into another wall. In fact, he was now in a high box, the only outlet being the door back into the bar.

The door opened and a figure dressed all in black stepped out. He was a big man with a long, drooping handlebar moustache. He was dressed in stringer fashion, complete with whip and sawed-off shotgun. He was not a young man—his hair was gray and his face worn and aged, with wrinkles around the eyes—but he was in pretty good shape.

"You!" the old man croaked. "But—you're dead! A hundred saw you fall nigh on to twenty years ago!"

"Eighteen," the man responded. "Eighteen years, three months to be exact. So if I'm a ghost, Gilly, then what's that make you?"

"Hey! Wait! I always liked you!" The old man paused for a moment. "This is a trick, isn't it? Who are you—really?"

"Does it matter? I want Coydt, Gilly. I want him bad, and I want him in Anchor."

Gilly took a swig from the bottle to steady his nerves. "Coydt? You nuts? Nobody can take Coydt; you know that!"

"I'll take him, Gilly, because he won't know who's after him even when you tell him."

"I don't talk to Coydt. Oh, sure, we was cozy once, but nobody's really cozy with him for long. You wind up dead—or worse."

"You know, Gilly. You keep track. I haven't got all night either. You know where they are. You know where they
all
are. You're too scared of them not to know."

Gilly drained the bottle, but it didn't help. "He's down near Anchor Logh. Half a world from here."

"Yeah. He pulled a job down there, Gilly, and he doesn't know it yet, but he pulled the wrong one. He woke up the dead with that one, Gilly, and now I'm going to get him."

"What was that business to you?"

"She's my kin, Gilly, though I didn't even know about her until this. I can't let people do that to kin. You know the code. You put the word out. You tell any dugger along the route that's going out. It'll get to me. If it's good information, I'll make it good with you, Gilly, I really will. Cross me, and you're dead, too."

Gilly laughed. "How can I cross you? Who's gonna believe after all these years that a dead man's out stalkin' Coydt?"

"You give him the word if you want. He's so puffed up and egomaniacal that he's liable to set up a meet just to see for sure. You go ahead, Gilly. You tell him Matson's back from the grave."

7

SIDEBAR STRINGING

Stringers did not usually ask for Sister Kasdi when they called on Hope, so it was with some curiosity that she decided to go down to the reception hall and see these who had. For lots of personal reasons she loved the taciturn loners who plied the trade routes between Anchors and Fluxlands, not the least of which was her envy of their freedom.

Two figures waited in the temple reception room. One was a small, thin young man barely Kasdi's height and almost as thin, although he wore the black of his profession. The other was an even shorter individual, perhaps one hundred and fifty centimeters, who was very fat, although her ample stomach was not nearly matched to her enormous breasts. She had long, thick black hair that fell down her back almost to her waist, wore unusual dark blue denim pants that seemed quite baggy, and a white tee shirt, obviously made for a very large man, but necessary to keep her enormous frontage covered.

"Suzl!" Kasdi almost screamed, and ran to the small, fat woman, hugging and kissing her. Finally, they stepped back and looked at each other.

"Cass, you look lousy," Suzl told her.

Kasdi laughed. Of all those on World, friend and foe, only Suzl refused to call her by anything but her original name—and was probably the only one who could get away with it. "You seem to have made up for what I didn't eat," she shot back. "You're
fat
!"

"Well, I enjoy life. Oh, uh, Cass, this is Ravi. He's my boss, so to speak, and, well, sort of my husband."

That caught the Sister off-guard for a moment. "Husband?" She was well aware that, as a result of a misfired spell long ago, Suzl was physically female only to a point; she had a male sexual organ and was, despite appearances and manner, really a man.